A Man of Fine Sense
by Onesimus42
Summary: A little character study of Charles Carson examining the 5 senses. May stretch the T-ness just a bit.


_**This arose from my wonderings about why exactly someone would be willing to forgo marriage and family for a life in service. And since my mind is perpetually in the gutter, it had to have some smut.**_

_**Disclaimer: They still don't belong to me; although I think that I put them to much better use than their current owners.**_

Charles Carson liked to think that he was a man of sense or rather of the senses; the five senses to be exact. He was not reluctant to admit that he liked the finer things in life. It was one of the reasons that he'd adapted so well to the role of footman and eventually butler. His job was to set the stage for the life of the family, and he did it to perfection, enjoying the show that he created immensely. The work was hard, just as hard if not harder than working as a clerk or in a shop, but he was able to enjoy a finer lifestyle than if he'd pursued one of those professions. He wore a suit each day and in the evenings was not dressed too differently from the men he served. His meals were simple but well-prepared, and occasionally he tasted a delicacy that he would never have known existed in a different life. He had wine for his nightcap instead of a pint of beer. He was surrounded by the beauty of one of the finest homes in the country filled with fine art instead of dingy wallpaper and cheaply framed prints in a tiny home of his own. The rooms that he governed held the perfume of freshly cut flowers from the garden instead of freshly boiled cabbage and fried onions.

Yes; he definitely appreciated the finer things in life which was why he adored Elsie Hughes. To him, she was the epitome of all the finest things. She alone completely satisfied all his senses and had done for the last twenty years. He knew now that he would never have his fill of her and in truth never wanted to. If she knew how much she entranced him, she never let on no matter how many times or how emphatically he had informed her. What fascinated him the most about her was the myriad number of sensations that she evoked. In twenty years he still did not think he'd experienced everything she had to offer.

For example, there was the soft jingle of the keys at her waist which always alerted him of her approach. This sound was always followed by the swishing of her skirts which he knew flowed around her strong, shapely legs. Her voice could assault his ear as she was scolding him or caress it with a gentle lilt as she teased him. The sound that made his blood rush however was her breathy rasp of his name and whispered urgings against his ear as he brought her to her release in the quiet of the night. The soft murmurs of pleasure she gave as she tasted him and the whimpers of abandon as he tasted her stirred him almost as much as the sensations she created. He had never heard any melodies that delighted him as much as the music that she made.

There was beautiful artwork and antiques in the home he served, and he'd seen masterpieces in some of the finest homes of Great Britain, but none compared to her. The curve of her neck was more graceful than any sculpture he'd ever seen, and her curves were more enticing than any vase. No painter would ever match the grey-green color of her eyes that darkened with desire as she made love to him. At first, he'd thought her hair the color of ravens, but he'd since learned as it spilled over her shoulder tickling his chest that it was the color of claret, the finest claret he'd ever known.

He had held the finest silver in his hands for decades, polishing it expertly and noting the slightest imperfections by touch. He had dressed tables in fine linen and men in fine silk shirts, but, again, these didn't compare with the feel of her. Her hair was like soft silk against his cheek. The skin of her lips was moist and warm against his own. Her body against his was smooth, and he loved to stretch along the length of her, feeling the contrast between her and the coarse hairs of his chest and legs. He delighted in the contrast between the firmness of her breasts and the warm moistness between her legs. Watching her eyes as he explored and probed her wet folds, he had found a multitude of spots that delighted her and one or two that overwhelmed her but loved to explore them anew each time he touched her.

The smell of her was finer than any roses from the gardens brought to delight the family in their rooms. No perfume could compare to the scent of lemons from her hair. Her breath smelled of mint and the skin of her neck and breasts brought to mind the warm, freshness of a summer day. When she was aroused, her musky scent brought a tightening to his groin that was overwhelming, and he often coaxed her to his room on the nights after the linens were changed so that he could sleep surrounded by the scent of her hair on his pillow for a full week.

His most highly developed sense, however, was his sense of taste. It was his palate that had made the wine cellar so fine. He rolled wines around his tongue, tasting the warmth of the summer and the brightness of the sun that had matured the grapes that made them. His judgment ensured that he not only knew which wines were fine now, but which would be finer in five, ten, or even twenty years. He could taste a new dish and instantly know which wines would complement and enhance the flavors. There were easily as many different tastes to her skin as existed in his cellar. Her lips tasted of mint and raspberries. The skin of her neck was salty and sweet. Her soft musk was first apparent on the skin beneath her breasts. Her center tasted far finer than any wine, sweet and full, filling his palate. She never tasted exactly the same, and he found this fact fascinating. There were subtle changes in her flavor which varied with the time of the month, what she ate, or even the time of the day, but he'd never found her displeasing. She thought that he stroked her with his tongue and suckled her with his lips simply to give her pleasure, but it was a greedy pleasure that satisfied him as much or more than it satisfied her.

Yes; Charles Carson was a man who liked the finer things in life, and Elsie Hughes was certainly the finest.

_**Reviews are as always greatly appreciated.**_


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